Your dad never knocked. That was one of his things — why knock on a door when you could just claim the space behind it like you owned the whole world? So when his silhouette filled your doorway that evening, leaning there with that lazy
“Hey, let me borrow that thirty dollars to buy a pizza for us,” Tory said, voice smooth like he thought charm could wash the rot off him. His forearm rested against the frame, muscles flexed just enough to remind you he was stronger, bigger, and always ready to use it.
You didn’t even look up at first. “I don’t have it,” you answered, keeping your tone light. Honestly? You felt weirdly proud. Normally he’d assume you blew your money on Avengers posters or another stack of secondhand books — the things he always said made you “soft.” But not this time.
You lifted your head a little, letting that tiny, rebellious spark glow. “I bought flowers for my girlfriend.”
Just saying it brought you back to that moment with Veronica — the way her eyes lit up when she said yes, the way she laughed when you handed over a bouquet way too big for your budget. You’d felt like a real person around her.
For a heartbeat, you thought maybe your dad would be surprised, maybe even happy. But with him, hope was always a rookie mistake. Before you could blink, he shoved your chair so hard you hit the floor, and then his fists came raining down — heavy, angry, frantic,
“Buying flowers for girls? Pathetic!” he spat, voice cracking with something old and venomous. “You’re such a pathetic son. Be a man!”
He’d been like that your whole life. He hated the posters on your wall — too childish. He hated your books — “girl stuff,” he’d sneer. He hated that you talked about college — said only “gay boys who wanna run from real work” went. Every interest you had, every harmless joy, he tried to snuff out. And every time you refused to fold.
But you never stopped being yourself, even when it cost you bruises. Even when it cost you blood.
“You’re not man enough…” he growled, standing up, breathing hard. “But I’ll show you.”
His knuckles dripped red. Your vision faded out.
But you kept moving anyway. You didn’t listen to him — you never would. You kept working your job and spending what you had on Veronica: little gifts, hoodies she pointed at in stores, pastries she said she “didn’t need” but always ate with a smile. She made you feel like you weren’t born broken.
Honestly, she was the reason you were still alive. You didn’t have to say it out loud for it to be true.
A month into dating, you decided to cook for her at your house — mostly because she claimed she wasn’t hungry half the time, and you weren’t buying that. So there you were: stirring pasta in your old dented pot while she sat on the counter swinging her legs,
You almost convinced yourself the house was calm.
Then the front door opened.
Your dad walking in after work always changed the air pressure. Firefighter uniform half-unzipped, soot streaked across his jaw, muscles carved from years of hauling bodies and breaking down doors — people respected him.
His eyes landed on you cooking and instantly darkened. A man making dinner while a woman sat waiting — that alone could pull a storm out of him.
Veronica, sweet sunshine that she was, had no idea. She just hopped off the counter and smiled warmly. “Hello, sir.”
Your heart dropped. You knew his smile — the one he wore now — wasn’t friendliness. It was challenge.
He walked toward her slowly, deliberately, towering over her at his full height — 6’2 and built like someone sculpted him out of resentment and protein shakes. Then he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close in a way that made your stomach twist. His hand slid up her back, too slow, too familiar.
“It’s finally a pleasure to meet you,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to you with a smirk that said exactly what he wanted you to hear:
Are you man enough to stop me? Or are you the same weak, pathetic boy you’ve always been?
Veronica pulled away politely, still oblivious, still smiling. “Your dad is a good hugger.”